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Creating a Story Three Words at a Time

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keeping us on track:


Hamsters ran wild in several thousand groups of three. Overwhelmed, the Republicans set fire to the homes of all those that could not flee. Then they marched through the streets to the chants of Alflives and crying Melmacian treats. Whiskey bottles littered the wet pavement, leaking like poor incontinent elderly poodles. The hamsters drank profusely, cursing like DarthMelvin at a gay bar, crying over lost chances. Despite the turmoil, Trump screamed “Derp” as he tried psychically stimulating every neuron in the hamster’s reproductive organs with partial success, horrifying everyone alive. The gangsters from way down under heard some thunder followed by rain. You could taste the wretched brine in the air, suffocating the senses like a python coiled tightly around a statue. Can’t begin to fathom why blue cheese was found beside the liquors, decomposing.


The loss of Chandler’s mixtape was a triumph. Only a king could understand why burning Chandler’s mixtape was a triumph. The Hamster War waged, millions marching towards Toronto with gigantic Day-Glo dildos stolen from the corpses of slain Methodists, Baptists, and Pentecostals. Can you believe what has become of the fragile hamster hider, DarthMelvin? It’s not a persistent problem, rather one more like an ebbing tide or occasional diarrhea.

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